


Goods

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy spends his money well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goods

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing! This isn’t properly British. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

He came here for one thing and one thing only, but he loads his arms up with shopping bags to complete the game. There are always extra errands to do—new robes to buy and groceries to fetch. He stops into the twins’ shop just long enough to remember why he never visits family, and then he’s off to the outskirts of Diagon Alley.

He slips down Knockturn with more subtlety than he needs. He’s a grown man. But somehow, this particular area just never lost its air of being _wrong_ , and as a respected Ministry official, Percy has to care for appearances. His dark suit blends in with the shadows, and he slips, unnoticed, down a crooked street. His usual fare is at the end; Percy’s step quickens.

Oliver Wood, a gorgeous Adonis of a man, stands at the end, leaning casually against the brick wall of a rundown building. His hips are thrust oh-so-slightly forward, his open shirt so thin it may as well be transparent. He isn’t wearing any robes. His trousers are too tight. When Percy’s halfway down the alley, the lamppost beside Oliver flickers on, responding to dusk. In the eerie glow, there can be no mistaking what Oliver is here for.

Percy reaches the light, but he doesn’t step into it. He checks over his shoulder: empty. This is a place of ill repute. When he looks back, Oliver’s smirking. His muscled arms cross over his taut chest, his strong jaw tilting back. He looks like something right out of Percy’s dreams, and he sounds just as good when he asks, “The usual?” Percy nods and pushes his glasses up his nose.

Oliver leans forward as if to start right here, but Percy turns his head away. He can’t be seen making out with seedy wizards in alleys. He hooks his arm between them like holding out a business proposition, and Oliver puts one hand on it.

Percy waits one extra second, just to take in the novelty of being _bad_ , and then he lets the magic dissolve them, Apparating them to somewhere else.

They’re in Percy’s apartment a second later. He lets his shopping bags slip off his arms and hit the floor—he needs his hands to deal with Oliver, already on him. Oliver sinks teeth into his neck and pushes at his jacket; Percy lets it be stripped away and tries to bite back his moan. There is no preamble; they’ve done this too many times to count; Percy’s order never changes. He wants Oliver _on him_ , like Oliver is the client and Percy’s the meal. Oliver pulls Percy’s tie away with too much ease for a Quidditch player who’s probably never worn a tie in his life.

Oliver nuzzles into the side of Percy’s face and murmurs, deep and guttural, “You smell _good_.”

Percy can’t do more than breathe, “Thanks.” He knows it isn’t just Oliver trying to get a better tip. He’s wearing a new cologne. Just for this. Oliver never smells like anything fancy, just musk and sweat and raw _man_ , but it’s just what Percy wants. He runs his fingers through Oliver’s soft hair and tugs his head straight, lining them up for a kiss. It isn’t chaste. They haven’t been chaste since the first galleon Percy slipped into Oliver’s pocket. It’s messy and full of tongue and the release Percy’s just been _dying for_. He claws at Oliver’s shirt—he wants it gone.

It’s on the floor in a heartbeat. They’re shuffling back, Oliver guiding Percy to the sofa, as familiar with the layout of Percy’s home as if he chipped in to design it. As soon as Percy’s legs hit the cushions, he buckles, knowing Oliver will catch him. He half falls, is half lowered, down. Oliver is busy with all of Percy’s buttons, and Percy doesn’t help; that’s what Oliver’s paid for. He just keeps running his hands all over Oliver’s bare, perfect chest. Oliver might as well be right out of _Quidditch Weekly._ Or _Playwitch_. It’s the one purchase Percy never, ever second-guesses.

If Percy could keep lube on the coffee table, he would. He’d keep it in his nightstand, in one of the kitchen drawers, especially in the bathroom—everywhere he might ever bring Oliver back. It’s fun when it’s manual; it takes longer and feels more intimate. But it would also be hell to explain if any of his coworkers were to come over and find it, not to mention the superiors he’s entertained for dinner. Spells are easier, safer. When Percy’s shirt is completely unbuttoned, the white fabric slipping down his sides, he reaches for his trousers. Oliver’s hand joins him, and Oliver finds his pocket first. Percy lets Oliver draw his wand out; he’s a Gryffindor and he trusts.

Oliver mutters the familiar spell in between kisses that leave Percy breathless. Then the magic is sinking into his skin, and he feels it crawl to his hips, curl inside him and set him on fire. His channel fills with a creamy liquid, and his walls flex, stretching open. He bites his lip and arches up, one leg wrapping around Oliver’s. Their shoes are still on. They’re on the sofa. That’s no good. He tries to kick his off, and Oliver, like reading his mind, mumbles, “Sorry.” He sits up, reaches back, flicks off his shoes and tosses the wand aimlessly to the glass coffee table. It rolls across the surface and teeters to a halt. Percy opens his mouth: an easy signal.

Oliver ducks down to fill it with a thick, talented tongue. Percy’s hands fly back to Oliver’s head, just to hold him in. He lets Oliver fiddle with their trousers. Oliver breaks apart just long enough to murmur, “My turn?” And Percy nods; of course it is—he already took the spell. He would’ve said something otherwise.

He knows Oliver prefers to top anyway. He tries to be good for Oliver. Somehow, he still ends up throwing orders, though—always the Prefect. He means to compliment Oliver’s skills or gorgeous eyes or perfect teeth, but instead he says, “Take off my glasses.”

Grinning like Percy being bossy is the hottest thing in the world, Oliver reaches to pluck them right off Percy’s nose. The world becomes a blurry mess of colour—good thing he left the lights on. It’s more comfortable this way, though, of course, he’ll miss all of Oliver’s handsome detail. But he knows what Oliver looks like. What Oliver feels like. He hears his glasses clink against the coffee table, softly placed down, and he runs his hands down Oliver’s tight six-pack to the trail of coarse hair disappearing into an open hem.

Oliver brushes his hands aside and purrs, “Let me.” Oliver’s hands slip under Percy’s knees, and Percy’s legs are hiked up around Oliver’s waist, spread and angled; Oliver sprawls over Percy and leans in, tilts his hips down, grinds in, right at that perfect spot. Oliver’s cock slips out along Percy’s balls, and Percy has to bury his face in Oliver’s neck to control his noise. This. _This_ is what he’s needed all week, what he’s craved and imagined. He can feel Oliver’s hand wedging between them, lining Oliver’s massive dick up properly, while Percy alternatively tries to push his trousers further down his thighs and clutches tighter to Oliver’s broad shoulders. He’s hard against his own chest, but he doesn’t touch himself, doesn’t even go anywhere near the red curls it’s nestled in. That’s more of Oliver’s job, and Percy wants this to last.

Percy says, “Ready,” even though they both know. He holds onto Oliver’s head, fingers threaded back in the short brown hair, while Oliver holds his hip and rubs their noses. The spongy head of Oliver’s cock drags down Percy’s crack from just behind his balls, dry and clinging. Then it reaches Percy’s hole and nestles in—Percy’s mouth falls open. He needs to take in more air.

He’s pushed inside with an easy pop, slow and small at first, but enough to make him squirm and bite back Oliver’s name. It’s always strange when they’ve used a spell to skip right to it, but the feeling of Oliver’s thick cock inside him isn’t at all a feeling he’s afraid of. He just has to adjust. He licks his lips and nods when he’s ready, and Oliver pulls gently out, then pushes in further. One of Percy’s hands slides down Oliver’s back, dipping into Oliver’s open trousers to clutch at his ass—it flexes while Oliver moves back and forth, steady—Oliver pistons into him that little extra bit at a time. The care gets to Percy. Even if sex is _always_ a little strange to him, he gets a flare of adrenaline at the prospect—he knows it’ll be amazing once they do it right, and he loves having Oliver tethered to him in whatever bizarre, inadequate fashion. He’d be uncomfortable, but if he could wake up every day with Oliver inside him, he would.

He takes Oliver to the hilt, teeth grit and face scrunched up, and Oliver kisses him all over with little, fleeting compliments like, “You look so hot,” and “You’re so tight,” and “ _Fuck,_ you feel good.” They sink to the bone for Percy to replay again and again, next time he’s lonely and can’t afford the dalliance. He thinks about Oliver too much. Oliver shifts, pulls out and pushes in, Percy grunts: not there. Oliver tries again, and on the third one, he gets it—Percy buckles and screams. Oliver kisses him twice as hard and grinds into that one spot. Then Oliver’s pulling half out and shoving back in. Percy moves to a monster beat inside his own head that leaves the sofa springs groaning. Percy takes every thrust with a spark of pleasure—Oliver’s so _good_ at this, always is, _so_ worth the money—Percy doesn’t have the time or enough leisurely interest to bother with people who aren’t this good. He wants it right, perfect, professional. Oliver gives it to him just the way he likes it; hard and fast, with bruising kisses and roaming hands and warm, hot, sweat-slicked skin. Percy can never stop _touching_ Oliver when he gets the chance—he’s so lucky.

He’s hungry for this. He wants to take it all over the apartment, switching places and positions, but of course, that isn’t realistic. He doesn’t have the time to spare for all-day-fucks, and he doesn’t want to clean up after that mess. It all happens here. He loses himself in the wild rhythm between Oliver’s dick and the sofa, hard flesh and soft fabric. Halfway through, he can’t take it anymore. He stops between their kisses long enough to moan, “Touch me.” Oliver smirks like he knows.

Percy finds Oliver’s hand first, wraps around the back of it and pushes it down between them. But Oliver breaks out of his grip before they get there, and Oliver ignores Percy’s glare, musing, “Lick it first.” He opens his hand next to Percy’s mouth, and Percy, fully aware his glare is being undermined by Oliver’s thrusts tossing him up and down, turns to obey. He laves up Oliver’s lifeline and lets it go.

It’s not quite enough lubrication, but he doesn’t care. The hand that wraps around him is big, rough, calloused from clenching onto brooms. Oliver’s fingers curl around him like they were built to do this, and they pump him easily, milk Percy in perfect timing with the thrusts. Percy’s in a daze. He tries to keep his mouth up with Oliver’s, but he winds up missing half the time, landing sloppy pecks along his cheeks and chin. Oliver’s making desperate, delicious, full-throated moans, and Percy’s no better. It’s times like these he’s glad for twenty-four-hour silencing spells. If their lewd noises didn’t wake the neighbours, the scraping of the sofa legs back and forth would. Percy’s body is moving of its own accord, into Oliver and as far away as he can stand, just to be rejoined again with the fervor of a pent up week. He doesn’t ever want to wait so long again. Maybe he should ask for a discount, some sort of bulk package, but then, Oliver’s worth every last knut he earns...

Percy doesn’t have a discernable end. It’s not often that he does—he’s not very good with sex, with people, with anything physical, and his mind wanders, and then he’s coming back in and aware his orgasm’s already started. He’s somewhere along that edge, either teetering over or falling down, and he rides it out with a torrential cry, curling up around Oliver’s body like a second skin. Percy’s too weak to kiss anymore, but Oliver picks up the slack. He keeps pounding into Percy, steady and firm, until Percy’s quivering and wilting in Oliver’s hand, foggily aware that, somewhere along the line, he’s made a mess of his stomach. Oliver keeps pumping him anyway, and it’s painful but good, and Percy goes with it, wanting Oliver to fill him up.

Oliver’s release, he follows better. It bursts inside him, and he gasps, tosses his head back, clenches on and delights in Oliver’s hiss. He drops both hands to squeeze Oliver’s ass, to feel it pull taut as Oliver comes inside him. Percy’s panting and delighted. He’s dizzy. He lets Oliver fall on top of him afterwards, still fully sheathed inside, covered in sweat, boiling hot, and heavy.

It doesn’t start feeling awkward until several minutes later, when neither of them have spoken yet, and Percy doesn’t want to lose him anyway. It doesn’t feel sexual now, but there’s still something to the closeness. Oliver doesn’t make any move to pull out. Percy feels over the edge of the sofa until there’s fabric in his fingers, but it turns out to just be Oliver’s shirt, which he tosses aside. He has to shift off the sofa to look this time, and he gets his hands on his robes.

Still breathing a little too heavily to speak properly, Percy picks out his wallet and fishes inside the spelled-smaller coin purse. Oliver watches him count nine galleons into his palm, because he’s too tired to deal with eight-plus-a-sickle-plus-three-knuts. Oliver holds out his hand, but Percy dodges it and maneuvers between the tangle of their limbs to Oliver’s back pocket. He pats them once and tries to pull Oliver’s waistband back up over his ass, but it just slips down gain.

So Percy gives up and collapses against the cushions, sighing contentedly. Finally, Oliver pulls out—Percy winces—and then Oliver settles back down like nothing’s changed, right into Percy’s open arms. He puts an elbow over Percy’s shoulder so he can prop his chin up on his palm, and he sighs, “So, when do you want to start dating for real?”

Percy smiles because he’s too lazy to laugh. He knows it’s a silly pretense, but he enjoys it all the same. He tries to explain, “I like paying for it; it makes me feel rich.” Which is probably messed up, but Percy’s too busy with other aspects of his life to bother with his off-balance social issues. Oliver’s never minded games, anyway.

Oliver just chuckles. He leans in to peck Percy’s nose. “In that case, I’ll be your favourite purchase as long as you like.”

Percy grins and asks, “What do you want for dinner?”


End file.
